Spare Me Over 'Til Another Year
by dnachemlia
Summary: Written for akaeve as a NFA Hangman prize. She requested Gibbs and a question answered, so the question is "why can Gibbs forbid people to die?" Pretty much complete crack and told from an OC point of view.


_**Spare Me Over 'til Another Year**_

Written for **akaeve** as a NFA Hangman prize. She requested Gibbs and a question answered, so the question is "why can Gibbs forbid people to die?"

**Genre**: Pretty much complete crack, told from an OC point of view, and inspired by watching too much _Dead Like Me_ and _Supernatural_.

**Rating**: K+ for dark humor

**Characters**: Gibbs, various other NCIS characters, a few Reapers, and Death himself

**Warnings: **Silly, and probably slightly offensive. The opinions expressed by certain characters are not mine, I promise.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own, just playing, yadda yadda, and yes, I am completely nuts.

* * *

_O, Death_

_O, Death_

_Won't you spare me over 'til another year?_

He couldn't believe his luck.

The Reaper, known to his coworkers as Steve, leaned against the wall in the corner of the room and waited. It was hard, waiting for his prize, especially one as rare as this: a _Plague _victim, for pity's sake. How rare were those nowadays? Not like a few hundred years ago, where they were practically a shilling a dozen. But this, in modern day America, _this _was a true treasure. Even better, this wasn't your run-of-the-mill bubonic form; annoying, but almost never deadly now. This was something special, cooked up in a lab by a society that was so wonderfully adept at finding new and interesting ways to off themselves, even though the application of those methods was woefully underrepresented.

He imagined how jealous his co-workers would be. They had grown almost bored with the usual fare: coronary disease, cancer, lung disease, accidents…with a murder or two thrown in to make after-life interesting. He could just imagine their faces during the next water-cooler gathering. _Yeah, I got to take someone with a throwback disease from the freaking Middle Ages. Cool, huh?_

With a smile he returned his attention to his target, the man who lay gasping for breath in the hospital bed, the blue lights in the room turning his lips and the tip of his nose black. Steve knew in normal light they'd be blue from lack of oxygen as the man's damaged lungs failed to provide the levels he needed.

_Won't be long now…_

Suddenly there was a commotion outside the room and a silver-haired man barged in, wearing no protective gear. Steve's eyes widened. Surely he wasn't going to be given another victim of the disease so soon? He listened as the man announced the "bug" was dead and sighed in disappointment. No outbreak this time. Pity. Those made his job even more interesting.

His attention returned to the man when he stepped up next to the bed and bent down to speak to the target in a low voice. Steve was surprised to hear not words of regret, or even shaky denial. There was no waver in the man's voice when he told, no, _ordered_ the target not to die.

_Yeah, good luck with that_, thought Steve. _Shouldn't be long now._ Suddenly, to his great surprise, his link to the target seemed to vanish.

_What in the ever-loving-?_

The room disappeared and he found himself back in the office, facing his direct supervisor. He stammered in embarrassment.

"I-I don't know w-what happened, Ms. Dorian."

"Recalled."

"What?"

"Recalled, order cancelled, 'oops, my bad', whatever you want to call it. The Boss said this one is a no-go."

"But that…that _never_ happens."

"Apparently not. Go take your next assignment, Steve. And don't mention this to anyone."

Steve nodded, but he continued to go over the events in his mind. Finally he decided that _somehow_ the silver-haired man was involved. What sort of man could make the Boss back off?

He intended to find out.

On his days off, Steve followed the man, whom he learned was named Leroy Jethro Gibbs, but he learned very little. There did not seem to be anything abnormal about the man. He was a man of few words, _that_ was obvious. He drank way too much coffee and got way too little sleep. He was feared and yet respected (and dare he surmise? _loved_) by his underlings. None of this would explain how a man, an ordinary human, had made Death back off. It made no sense.

It made even less sense when one of his underlings was killed (and _man_ had she been mad about that, he was _really_ glad not to have caught that reap). He watched Gibbs track down her killer and arrange his death with cold determination that made Steve glad _he_ wasn't the target of Gibbs' wrath. Still, it didn't answer the question.

He continued to watch, and wait, but no evidence was forthcoming. Nothing he could see, at least. He did, on occasion, believe that Gibbs knew he was there. Those cold blue eyes would occasionally focus on him, and the smirk that followed gave hint that not only did Gibbs know of his presence, it amused the man. To Steve it was more than a little disconcerting.

Finally Steve decided that he would have to go to the top. He needed to ask the Boss.

After months of waiting, he was able to get an appointment. He had to admit he was a little worried about it. He had never even laid eyes on the Boss, and had no idea what to expect. Would his questions get him a demotion? Or something worse? He almost chickened out, but as they say, curiosity killed the cat (and he had heard plenty of tales from the Pet Reapers to know that was somewhat true).

When Steve finally stepped inside Death's office, he was shocked. It looked like the plain, cookie-cutter high-rise offices where he had taken so may targets over the millennia. The desk in the center was large and made of dark wood, and the high-backed chair behind it was faced towards the windows. The view looked like a normal office view as well. It was weird.

"Not what you expected?" asked a rich, cultured voice.

"I…I'm sorry?"

The chair turned and Steve received another surprise. He had, over the years, seen many representations of Death, none of them complimentary, but the man in front of him was quite handsome, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. He leaned forward and smiled.

"To what do I owe this visit?"

"I, uh, I'm sorry sir, but…something happened a few months ago and I…I was hoping you could explain."

"Your recalled assignment."

"Yes."

Death smiled (and it really was a lovely smile). "It was my fault."

"Sir?"

"I get bored here, sometimes. My employees do most of the work now, and I only get called out for the major events. Sometimes I liked to walk the Earth, mingle with the humans. They are quite interesting, you know, when they're not at my door…so to speak." He chuckled. "Occasionally I join in on some of the baser pastimes. 'Games of chance' is a particular favorite."

"You, uh, gamble…Sir?"

"I don't take unfair advantage, so yes, it is gambling."

"But how…what does this have to do with-?"

"I occasionally lose. The loss that interests you involved one Leroy Jethro Gibbs. His prize (which took some convincing for him to believe it was possible) was to have a say in the death of people he cared about. That is, if he had _time_ to speak before they…passed on."

"What…what would have happened if he had lost?"

"I'm afraid that's not your concern, Steve. Now that I've answered your question, I hope you'll be able to get back to your duties without further distraction. Ms. Dorian has been _concerned_."

Steve gulped. He knew Ms. Dorian's concern was definitely _not_ a good thing.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir…uh, one more question, if I may, Sir?"

Death sighed. "What is it?"

"Why haven't you tried to get your prize back?"

Death smiled. "I know when to quit while I'm ahead."

"Ahead?"

"Gibbs is one _Hell_ of a poker player."

The End


End file.
